


A View From a Window

by Edhla



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft, One-Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's admission into private boarding school gets off to a very rough start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A View From a Window

"You needn't worry a thing about him, Mr Holmes. We're in the business of making boys into fine, resourceful men."

They were standing in the junior boy's bedroom of Evenden Hall, where Sherlock was to sleep bunked together with seven other boys his age. Of all the boys, Sherlock Holmes was to be the youngest and, headmaster Charles Bishop instantly suspected, the smallest. Although Evenden Hall took in boys from the age of seven, most families didn't send away children that young to residential living.

This family, Bishop instantly saw, was not like most. The child had been brought to school by his older brother; a boy of eighteen or so, on his first foray into the world of university.  Bishop knew little about the parents. Divorced, father absent. Mycroft Holmes had excused his mother's absence from her younger son's education with the notion that she was "ill". Bishop had known too many boys who had been sent to Evenden Hall because that "ill" meant "nervous breakdown", or something quite close to it.

And it was odd - more than odd - to see a boy of seven being mothered by another boy of eighteen. Mycroft Holmes was pulling it off well, mind. Mycroft Holmes, Bishop concluded, pulled off most things well.

"I think you may find Sherlock a challenge," he commented ruefully. "Raw materials."

Sherlock was sitting on the bottom bunk of a bed near the window, a canvas bag in his lap and a suitcase resting next to his knees. The room was otherwise deserted; term wouldn't go in for two weeks yet, so Sherlock had the school almost to himself for a while. Bishop had seen hundreds of boys filter through Evenden Hall, but this one was unusual. Weedy, pale, small. Odd, lamp-like grey eyes that seemed to _suck in_ rather than _see_. Was reported to be rather brilliant, intellectually, though Mycroft had mentioned he'd had some "problems fitting in" at his previous school. Hopefully, Bishop reflected, if he had to day-and-night with other boys his age he might learn some more solid social skills.

"We'll sort you out, won't we, Holmes?" he asked him, slapping him on the shoulder with all the fake bonhomie of a used car salesman. His hand rested for a second on that tiny, bony little shoulder, fragile and sharp, like the wing on a sparrow. Sherlock flinched like he'd been hit.

"Oh, um. Yes," he returned, muttering into his chest.

"Yes, what?"

Sherlock paused, looking at him for a few seconds, as if trying to work out if it were a trick question. "Yes, sir," he finally said quietly.

"That's better. Respect, Sherlock. Respect for your elders is the beginning of wisdom. One of the fine lessons you'll learn here, and thank me for one day, I should hope."

"And so should I," Mycroft returned. "I also hope you won't break too many canes on him. I'm afraid he can be very stubborn and… intractable." But he was looking at Sherlock with something approaching paternal pride.

"Rulers, 'til he's ten. And hopefully none of those, either."

Mycroft shrugged. "Different in my day. Either way, you're to behave and bring neither rulers nor canes on yourself, Sherlock, is that clear?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered.

"That mumbling is horrible," Bishop commented. "Lesson one will be how to answer questions promptly, fully and clearly. We'll begin on that immediately, so that when term goes in we'll have a boy who can speak properly. I imagine we'll have no difficulties in that department, will we, Holmes?"

Sherlock shook his head dully. He seemed to be surveying the room around him. Sucking it in. Bare floorboards, though there were heavy-duty runners up and down the middle of the room. Rickety white-framed bunk beds; walls painted a rather nauseating shade of powder blue. The mattress the child was sitting on was very thin. There was a blue comforter, also thin and a shade or two darker than the walls, and a single, rather flat pillow. All of the bedclothes smelled of must and, faintly, of mothballs. There were large dutch-style windows at intervals along the room, letting light and air in. From the one he was sitting by, Sherlock only had to glance out to see a vast expanse of rolling countryside, bordered with lines of trees and dotted with cattle; just at the horizon, he thought he could make out the dull, iron-grey hue of Greater London.

Sherlock tightened his clutch on his bag.

Bishop, suspecting a tearful performance was imminent, turned back to Mycroft. "I don't mean to hurry you away, Mr Holmes, but I always find that the younger ones do better if there isn't any fuss or anything drawn out, do you see?"

"I quite agree," Mycroft nodded, going over to his brother. "I'm going now, Sherlock. Mind you behave yourself, and try not to antagonise too many of the other children. I'll see you at Christmas."

At the mention of "Christmas" - more than three months away - Sherlock swallowed hard. Mycroft dug his heels in.

"Stand up, please. Adults stand up to shake hands."

Sherlock got reluctantly to his feet, though he was still clutching the handle of his bag in his left hand. Mycroft held his own hand out to shake, but the ritual was evidently not much of a success. "What's the matter now?" he asked, eyeing the child keenly.

Sherlock swallowed again. Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Sherlock, _no._ You're far too old for this homesick nonsense, and I'm not going to have you starting that pitiful blubbering before I even leave. Don't be childish."

Sherlock, Bishop knew, was too young to notice the strain in Mycroft's voice, or to know what it meant. "I don't want to stay here," he rasped, trying nobly not to cry. "Please."

"At nine thousand a term, you'd _better_ be staying here," was the response. "And not just staying here, but making good use of the opportunities you're being given. I don't want to hear about any of your escape antics, either." Even at seven, Sherlock had already made several successful escapes from his previous day-school. He was a particularly talented and fearless climber. "Sherlock, everybody has to go to school, you know that. And you'll get settled in soon enough. Now we've said our goodbyes like gentlemen, and I'm going. And you'll unpack your things, do as your teachers tell you, and otherwise behave. Understood?"

Mycroft nodded to Bishop, and then turned and made for the door, gait firm and quick. He had already disappeared before Sherlock could register that he was gone.

"Mycroft…?" No answer. Sherlock let go of his bag and ran to the doorway. "Mycroft, come _back_ …!"

"That will do." He felt Bishop's hand come to rest heavily on his shoulder. "There's no need to create a fuss-"

Sherlock tore off; Bishop restrained him with one arm.

"That will _do,_ Holmes!"

But Sherlock, flailing desperately, sank his teeth into the arm that held him, drawing blood. Bishop swore and let him go, and he spilled into the corridor and thumped down the spiral staircase three at a time. He overbalanced and pitched headlong at the bottom, temporarily stunning himself and splitting his lip as he landed on the hardwood floor; he didn't notice the injury. By the time Charles Bishop had reached the bottom of the stairs the boy had recovered himself and darted out of the front hall and down the front steps. As Bishop reached the doorway, he saw Mycroft Holmes getting quickly into a waiting car.

_"Mycroft!"_

The car door slammed shut, like a slap to the face. Sherlock watched, tear-blinded and bleeding, as the car wheels crunched slowly across the white gravel, then onto the road and away down the tree-bordered lane.


End file.
